


Dying Star

by truc



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics), Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Death, Deathfic, Equality, Fairy Tales, Grief, M/M, Stars, Superbat Reverse Bang, lullaby
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-09
Updated: 2020-06-09
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:53:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24618646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/truc/pseuds/truc
Summary: Kryptonians age differently than humans.
Relationships: Superman/Batman
Comments: 20
Kudos: 99
Collections: Superbat Reverse Bang 2020





	1. Once upon a time...

**Author's Note:**

  * For [inihiu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inihiu/gifts).



> inihiu made the gorgeous work this fic is based on! I highly recommend you go check it out.

[See here inihiu's fantastic drawing who inspired this story!](https://inihiu.tumblr.com/post/620603534610661376/drawn-for-the-2020-superbat-reverse-bang-you-can)

Clark's father had been a man of many talents, one of which was storytelling.

The usually stoic man could spin, on the tip of his hat, an epic adventure that transported Clark to a whole new world with a sympathetic hero to cheer.

Nevertheless, all of his stories started in the same fashion.

"Once upon a time..."

"...There was a kind boy in a rural village whom everyone loved."

"...There was a dragonling tormented by a longing to explore the world over the forbidden mountain."

"...There was a tree plagued with loneliness."

And Clark would listen as the boy, dragonling or tree overcame his hardships one after the other, as they fought to survive the drought, tornado or bullies; as they gained unexpected allies and; as they found their life's purpose.

His Pa would weave his tale with magic, either imbued in beings or objects. However, what Clark loved above all was that all stories ended with the satisfying: "and she (or he, or they) lived happily ever after."

_'That's the problem with you,' Bruce chuckled around his cigarette, eyes consuming all of Clark's concentration, a grey single-breasted suit covering his body from head to toe, gorgeous and merry. 'I suppose you still believe a committed relationship is the happy ending you're supposed to receive.'_

_Clark Kent puffed his chest a bit. 'What's wrong with committed relationships?' It wouldn't have been the first time someone had ridiculed his "simple-minded" idea of happiness, especially in their community._

_The billionaire gave him a sardonic smile. 'Committed relationships never end happily.'_

_'That's not true,' Clark immediately responded, 'Some people do find happiness.' He knew pessimist was all the hot trend in cities, but he couldn't abide by it even if there wouldn't be a marriage at the end of his trajectory._

_Bruce shook his index at him, 'Someone always leaves the other behind, one way or another. That's the truth of it.'_

_Clark faltered a moment in his argument to readjust his perspective to Bruce's. After a moment, he gestured at the crowd of people milling below them, acquaintances and friends of Bruce's. 'That goes for every relationship, Bruce: it ends. Does that mean we shouldn't get involved with anyone? It does not. That's why you get to know everyone.'_

_'Bad example,' Bruce snarked, flashing his teeth, 'I wish I knew half of them half as much as I know them; I wish I didn't know the other half at all.'_

_Clark swallowed his frustration as he wryly comments: 'Misquoting Tolkien?'_

_Bruce gave him a half shrug._

_'Even Commissioner Gordon?' Clark asked, pointing to the man in question, evidently, on edge in the classy setting with his trademark battered beige trench coat._

_Bruce leans on the railing, back slightly turned to Clark. 'Especially Jim,' he whispered. As the silence filled their conversation, Clark realized that Bruce meant he wouldn't have gotten to know Gordon if his parents hadn't died in Crime Alley when he was eight-years-old; he would have preferred to know his parents over Jim Gordon._

_Clark sighed in defeat, already feeling the inferred rejection deep in his bones. 'I understand you're not interested,' he clarified, 'I won't bother you again.'_

_He tried to keep his tears from falling, knowing he had had to reveal his feelings to the one he loved, despite the perils to his career and reputation, despite knowing the Justice League detective would reject him._

_Already, his work colleagues had commented on his lack of a female companion at annual events. It was only a question of time until the rumours that plagued his high school days would resurface, poisoning his adult relationships, his friendships._

_Bruce tilted his head as if to listen to Clark elaborate on his statement. When the reporter didn't continue, he simply pondered for a while and declared: 'Let us do it, Clark.'_

_He took out his cigarette and put out the embers on the ashtray near the plant beside them. His eyes shone as he fixed Clark with a gaze the reporter would later qualify as prophetic. 'I'll even marry you one day if you'd take me. I only want to make sure you won't regret choosing this path.'_

_Clark took his glasses and cleaned them with his sleeve, much to Bruce's evident disgust, stalling to hide the way his heart pounded like crazy in his head- to conceal how Bruce's words had affected him, how his palms were sweaty and his eyes, watery. 'We haven't yet gone on a visit. Don't recklessly promise me the moon, Bruce.'_

_Bruce's perfectly alighted silhouette by the glamoured chandelier turned completely to face Clark. 'I don't kid about things like this,' the billionaire proclaimed to Clark's utter amazement._

_Something in Clark welled; delighted and scared that Bruce was ready to marry him before they'd even call on each other, before it'd even be legal (would it ever be legalized instead of punished?). Fairies were quite a hot target of the mainstream culture, after the riots._

_They both had so much to lose. Especially Bruce._

_Clark swallowed and glanced about. Nobody had noticed their tension-filled bubble, their ardent moment, amidst the superficiality of their world._

_'How do we go about with this?'_

_Bruce beckoned a waiter; the man came over. The billionaire, whimsical to a fault, took a glass of champagne and gestured him away._

_'That's the easy part,' Bruce continued as he contemplated the room. 'We've fooled them for years. Let's not dally about the middle details just now. The hard part's always the end.'_

_'Is that so?' Clark hummed. 'We'll deal with the end later; for now, let's celebrate our new bonding experience.'_

_Bruce shook his head exasperatedly as if his best friend was a child. 'To our bond.' He raised his glass in Clark's direction._

_Together, they watched the outward festivities below, hands almost touching on the railing, each sending furtive glances at their companion- sometimes, their eyes met, sizzling with an energy Clark couldn't explain. It seemed like the moment could go on forever._

Bzzz.

The Kryptonian barely reacts to the light buzzer on the table.

A new day has come.

Clark hates that Bruce was right. The end is always the worst.

Daylight barely reaches Bruce's head, slowly unveiling the monstrosities needed to keep him alive: there are more machines than living beings in the room.

Even though Clark has the innate ability to hear his lover's heartbeat, there is a machine for measuring his heartrate. Further down, there is a cluster of necessary testing equipment; they clutter the corners and the walls in an orderly, but messy fashion. Closer, a tentacled- or so it seems- tube slithers in Bruce's throat, pushing air through his defailing lungs, forcing him to breathe. An emergency defibrillator occupies one part of the ugly pale blue wall- a wall Clark has come to despise for its unchanging nature despite Bruce's slow deterioration.

In his mind, he knows it is unfair to expect the Manor to fall apart at Bruce's release, considering it had survived Bruce's ancestors' death. In his heart, it matters not.

Here he is, waiting for his husband to die and foolishly hoping he wouldn't.

Some days, Clark swears he can almost smell the cells' decline, the organs' wasting away as time marches on. He hopes it's all his imagination; the implications of his newly found powers would be heartbreaking; Clark does not need- _want!_ \- to emphasize their difference on the eve of Bruce's passing.

Listening to the puff of life animating Bruce, Clark wonders how he'd survived its disappearance. Clark selflessly clasps to the last of this life, more desperately than Bruce had ever clung to life.

Nothing is lost; nothing is created; everything is transformed. Clark begs to differ; chemistry may be a scientific field; however, its fundamentals do not rule human hearts.

Clark had banned clocks from the room and the Manor, an absurd request for a desperate man. But, then, again, one of the copious watches he'd carried over the years' ticking had almost driven him mad at his mother's vigil.

He remembers quite vividly her ashen complexion, similar to Bruce's, her lack of energy and the ubiquitous presence of the end.

Back then, he'd tried listening to music or news to drown the ominous sound of silence.

Living in the moment has never felt as hard as when someone dear is dying; Clark hears every minute creak, every subtle shift, every breath intake and wonders if it is the last; if he'd be left behind again.

For now, Bruce is still here in a tranquil place- and he did deserve at least this-. Months ago, when he'd first slipped into his coma, doctors had given him days to live; had told Clark to prepare for the inevitable any day.

Clark takes his husband's hand, the hand he'd given him in marriage, and prays without words because words twist the truth- and the closest he could find would be "stay." The leathery, wrinkly, skin texture still exudes warmth, life. And it was the most beautiful hands Clark had ever seen, even with such rough exterior- his father's hands had been second.

Toil had been their life- was Bruce's life. Everywhere on Bruce's body, there were marks of his mission: a fit of forgotten irrational jealousy inflates in Clark. After years of struggles, he is Bruce's priority, behind his two remaining kids- ironically, they were the two first to go- however, rancour stays a long time after the fact, even in someone as good-natured as Clark.

He prefers not to dwell in the past.

He'll remember too many- with hindsight- useless fights, eternal- or so it seemed, at the time- kisses and quiet conversations. How would he stop the flood of associated images, scents, touch, sounds and tastes?

Once Bruce departs, he will let it wash over him, drowning himself in tears again of all he has lost, mourning the life he'd tied to himself with some fancy thread and replaced over time with scruffy duct tape until nothing could tear them apart- until they had become inseparable, in sickness or health.

Momentarily, he has a vigil to hold, a hand to hold and a heart to listen.

Light is now washing up on Bruce's entire figure, highlighting Clark's husband in a halo of undiluted brightness. Clark burns this image, an icon of resting peace, in his brain.

Outside, a robin sings the glory of a new day. Fitting, Clark supposes; however, he refuses to try to decipher the possible meanings of such an act, whether as a parting song or not- Robins, whatever their new names may be, have flown in a few times to give their goodbyes. Those visits were one of the only times Clark left Bruce's room- although, technically, this wasn't his room.

 _ **Their**_ room isn't theirs anymore.

Not when Bruce isn't there to warm it up, not when it feels colder and emptier than the cavernous Fortress or Batcave. Instead, Clark prefers to nap in Bruce's chamber, comforted by Bruce's continued existence.

At each of her visits, Di tells him this insistence on associating human connection solely to Bruce is unhealthy. She informs him he should get out once in a while; Bruce's existence shouldn't be his whole life.

"Bruce is fading in the night that never ends," she once tells him, her appearance undiminished by time despite her age. "This is your first life in a lifetime of lifetimes."

Clark ignores her wise advice for now.

Despite his unresponsiveness, Bruce is vividly alive, bright as a star, galaxies away- _even though they shine this radiantly, some of those stars are already inert_ , Clark considers.

He's aware even stars bigger than the sun can die: Clark had seen it happen. When the star's core runs out of hydrogen, they fuse helium into carbon. Contrarily to the sun, when the helium disappears and because of its mass, the star fuses its carbon into heavier elements, snuffling out its fire- similar to how the lack of breathing extinguishes a human's fire.

Even the star's fall is revealing, grandiose in its downfall; it collapses on its gravity and heats up. The center compacts so much that protons and electrons unite to create neutrons.

Clark has seen the star's core shrivel together and create more heat- around billions of degrees, hot even by his standards- before exploding, a phenomenon called a supernova, liberating energy and material into the void of space. Sometimes, that shock wave launches another star's birth, truly a stellar example of the cycle of life… even though a star's death was devastating on a grand scale.

All that's left of the original star is a neutron star- who no longer actively animate heat-or a black hole- in which no light can escape.

When the sky is filled solely with darkening or light-sucking stars- aptly named dark holes-, how can anyone find their way home?

The same holds with Clark.

Bruce still breathes, shining with the sun's soft touch, glorious as a doomed star.

Soon, he'll collapse unto himself, his heat withdrawing from his physical core- leaving Clark with a shortage of warmth and light.

If only Clark could hold on forever to Bruce's core in his arms without burning them both.


	2. Quest

When Clark was young, he loved watching the stars brightening up the seemingly endless sky almost as much as he liked to listen to his father's tales. He often wondered whether there were others like him in this vast universe. Maybe, one day he'd go and find them.

Life had other plans for him.

His college idealism seamlessly morphed to adult life pragmatism.

He became Superman- a misnomer if there ever were one- seeing how he wasn't even a man- more by accident than design.

He saved people and liked it. What circumstances forced on him helped him define him.

Along the way, he met superheroes from varying walks of life. They founded a new organization called Justice League, one born of necessity rather than desire. Nonetheless, from his colleagues, he made friends.

Parallel to his superhero life, he also matured into a renowned reporter, working at the best newspaper in the state. From his rivals and colleagues, he made friends.

But, somehow, despite his blessed life, Superman always kept gazing at the stars, praying he'd find others like himself, fragments of his lost world, people with whom he could truly relate.

He didn't find those remnants of his vanished planet; they found him instead. Kara came. Then, Conner appeared.

Excitement burned in Superman, hope he wasn't alone now renewed with burning grace.

With time, however, he discovered that Kara barely had anything in common with him, especially in the area of interest. She was more assertive than him and, despite her age, sometimes acted as if she was the older of the two. Although she could describe everyday life on Krypton, it pained her to portray the world she'd lost. Kara made human friends and family and, only occasionally, wanted to explain the world her cousin wouldn't ever know. Superman couldn't blame her for the reaction.

Connor, on the other hand, hated Superman's guts; he didn't want to see, hear or listen to him. It eventually got better. Still, being reminded he was Superman's clone didn't help their relationship. Furthermore, contrarily to Clark, Connor was an 'Earth' product through and through. He didn't care much about Krypton's heritage or history.

In disappointment, Superman stopped looking at the space between stars, knowing Kara and Connor hadn't answered the intent of his wish- only the superficial meaning of his longing-, knowing it would be vain to wish for more when he had so much.

Superman almost forgot the nature of his wish. He cherished his friends, family and work. What more could an alien gain?

Life went on. He saved people and, if the stars seemed to dull in their brilliance, none but Superman were the wiser.

One night, he heard Batman talk in a melodious voice. He hadn't meant to listen- he just had, which had been odd from the start.

Curious, Superman disobeyed Batman's standing orders to keep out of Gotham and flew there.

He found Batman holding a very young and physically traumatized child to his chest in a demolished apartment. A child with closed eyelids and slowing breathing.

Maybe the child had requested something from Batman before Superman's arrival. Maybe not.

However, Superman could not pretend he wasn't shocked by Batman's subsequent actions.

"When you wish upon a star  
Makes no difference who you are  
Anything your heart desires  
Will come to you," Batman sang gravelly, as the body cooled in his arms. The singing continued for some time, rough from use. Eventually, the song abruptly stopped, unfinished in its verse.

This world's harsh wind had snuffed out the much too young existence in Batman's arms.

Gently, Batman laid the body on the damaged mattress and tucked the child in, as if he was still alive.

Superman couldn't see the expression on Batman's face, still, he felt as if he had intruded in a private moment. He flew back to Metropolis: his mind stuck on the fragility of the scene he'd just witnessed.

Something about the way the song was sang struck a chord inside him, insinuated itself in his life.

At first, he didn't notice anything unusual in his behaviour. At first, he didn't understand what was going on.

More than once, he caught himself silently observing Batman. Initially, he dismissed it as unease about the private nature of the display he'd witnessed. But, when he caught himself watching Batman in admiration, he knew there was more to it than unease: Batman allured him.

Superman ignored the growing unnamed feeling in his chest, something that could disturb his carefully arranged life.

Instead, he decided it was time to visit where Krypton once had been, to see his home. He floated between the planets and moons, trifled with meteors. On his journey, Clark witnessed astonishing spectacles until he reached the floating remnants of what had once been the glorious planet of Krypton.

In the space between stars, pieces of his home planet weightlessly drifted.

Clark collected samples like a tourist would buy memories, interested but dispassionate. His native soil crumbled between his fingers, dry and unnourishing. Rather than rejoicing about his findings, he missed Earth like a fish out of water. 

Clark knew this wasn't home and; the stars here couldn't grant his wishes.

He flew back _home_ where his wishes might come true.

Lullabies and fairy tales held some truth; Clark only had to wish the brightest star, the one he'd heard blazing in Gotham, and his wish came true, albeit in an incremental fashion.

With the brightest star illuminating and warming him, he didn't feel lonely.

He had declared his love for Bruce; the other man had accepted.

Despite the fights, the complications, they should have lived happily ever after.

The story should have ended on that high note.

But life isn't a fairy tale.


	3. Ever after

The sun rays grow more intense on Clark's skin.

Why is the sun so bright after a lifetime of absence in this old Manor? Why is the sun so vibrant when Clark's star lays still?

Clark gulps his bitterness and exhales softly. Like Bruce's steady but weak breathing pattern matches his as they had often done, either in the span of passion or in the precious lull. Clark needs to slow down his tempo, to fall into Bruce's pace, to count each of his seconds. For as long as it will last.

Bruce rests, Clark reminds himself, because he pushed himself too much for too long. His body shrivels with lack of exercise and lack of food. He'll recover again.

He'll quirk a half-crooked smile again, one with irony on his lips and eyebrow but fondness in his eyes, one of his real smiles.

Then, Clark will tease him about something useless. They laugh like crazy old fools still passionately in love with each other, like teenagers who hadn't learn a thing about heartbreak, compromise and short-lived hopes... Fools who had once tumbled down the hill in summer and had countered Ma's questions with giggles.

Swear-to-God giggles.

(Bruce's giggles were probably one of the world's most absurd things Clark had ever seen. First, his face froze in a blank stoic mask to hide his glee. Then, when his control slipped, truly and utterly, the corner of his lips contracted against the natural lifting movement. Thirdly, his body shook with the effort to keep the cork on the glee bottle that was his body. Finally, the sound tumbled out of his mouth, like those of a hissing snake, and the giggle popped out of Clark's solemn lover, one torturously contained humour after the other. It's truly a sight to behold when someone peeled Bruce's dignity away to reveal his hidden playfulness.)

As he has oft done, Bruce will wake up and make Clark fall in love with him all over again.

...

Clark hates himself for deluding himself.

He can't help it: he was born and raised on hope and love. With time, hope and love can poison even the sanest person into coiled positivist escapism.

It's not the first time Clark suffers through the harmful maxim of "everything's going to be fine."

Once, he thought his Pa would survive his heart attack. At another time, he let himself believe it wasn't the last time he'd driven his Ma to the hospital.

"You can't stop time," his Pa once told him to cheer him up.

If he could, Clark would rewind time like an olden watch so he could live with them forever. Each morning would start a new day, filled with the people he loved. Each day would end with him going to bed with the knowledge they'd still be alive when morning comes.

However, Clark does not have the power to reverse time nor to stop it. All he can do is watch helplessly as the sand drifts through his hands- bits and pieces even he couldn't put back together again- watch as Bruce crumbles to dust- watch as his cells stop regenerating- watch as his star fades- watch as his fairy tales evaporate.

Bruce's hand moves in Clark's, a fraction, really, of what humans can see or feel.

Hope fills Clark's chest; love fills his mind. He massages the hand back, dreaming of even a coded conversation, a useless exchange of banter or a spark.

Anything! A sign!

Alas, he waits in vain. As the mid-afternoon sunlight wanes slowly into the torpour of late afternoon, nothing changes.

Premonitions grow on Clark as mushrooms on tree corpses- snowballing in the collision of a hundred- no, thousands!- of thoughts, cumulating in a single dreaded fear: Bruce was dying.

The silence drains all of Clark's hope; they plummet, rise and fall within moments- not the first time he'd been breathless with the possibility- although each episode bleeds his energy, he hopes it's not the last roller-coaster ride on that fear.

_Please. Please. One more day. Let him live until morning. The mornings here are much kinder than evenings. For all he's done, for all he's sacrifice, let him live one more day._

The rays on his nape lessen in intensity, as Bruce's shallow breathing diminishes accordingly. Clark pinches his lips close to keep from bawling, heart selfishly breaking again. He should be here for Bruce, not for himself. They'll be ample time to cry over surviving, less to think of Bruce's passing.

They've said their goodbyes too many times in too many ways. Letters, emails, holograms, words and gestures: they've done it all.

(Clark begged and prayed Bruce to stay more times than he's comfortable counting; Bruce never begged, always asked- maybe, he'd known 'please' was not the magic words Clark's parents had taught him it was. Be it as it may be, Bruce's requests were as efficient as Clark's pleas.)

What could Clark do?

Is Bruce afraid? Should Clark speak? Tell him he loves him again and again? Ask him to stay? Let him go?

His hand grips Bruce's.

_No._

Clark looks on, powerless in the seemingly eternal stillness as evening turns to night.

_Don't take him away._

There, something repugnant grows in him, something ugly and hurtful, something powerful and relentless. Bruce can't go. It's unjust, unfair, unequal.

 _'You can't die, Bruce,'_ Clark thinks, _'and leave me alone.'_

As the sky is far-flung, as the universe is far, whatever's boiling under Clark's skin splits his heart, bursts through his head, crashing like a mad galloping stallion.

_You can't die. You spent a lifetime not dying, Bruce; you can do it again. You're not a flimsy leaf fluttering upon the breeze; you're the breeze who stirs the leaves._

_Fight!_

_..._

_Please, Bruce, fight. Considering I can't follow you there, stay, stay beside me as you swore you would._

Somehow, it feels wrong.

Bruce never stopped fighting; he fought his way out of every situation, bloodied his fists, broke his back and moved on. He stopped being Batman because he had promised Clark to fight for his life and he was getting in his years.

Bruce fought to live. Always had.

He can’t ask Bruce to fight and stay anymore, Clark realizes with a start, because Bruce would break his promise, he’d die knowing he betrayed Clark’s expectations and wishes. Bruce can’t stop his death, not now. All Clark can do is accept the inevitable or refuse it.

There was no third options, no compromise.

Clark knows what he has to do and hates having to do it. His hands tighten on Bruce’s hands, his head bows in his direction.

Through his wet eyelashes, he memorizes his husband's figure, alight with the glow of his virtue: his relaxed facial muscles devoid of frowns, his pale skin, thicker than Clark's own and his gray, unpretentious hair.

Clark can't help touching his husband's face with one of his hands, trembling.

There's nothing to say but the words they spent a lifetime telling each other.

_Thank you for all the time you spent with me. I love you, Bruce._

He can hear the hitch in Bruce's increasingly shallow breath, the rasp of his inhalation.

One moment, he's breathing, the next he's not.

Clark stops breathing with him, heart froze in suspension, a part of him dying, leaking through Bruce's death.

The next time Clark comes back to consciousness, half the stupid machines are damaged and; he cradles Bruce in his arms, warmth already bleeding away.

His star is dead.

He feels lifeless, numb. He hates his Kryptonian constitution.

Soon, they will come and announce Bruce's death (as if, until an astrologer doesn’t discover the star’s death, it still exists).

Soon, they'll try to have him live his life.

Now, Clark cannot see anything but Bruce's wrinkled beautiful face. This, too, they'll steal from him and bury in the cold ground away from him.

Clark forces himself to breathe, to pretend he's human again, to pretend he'll soon face Bruce's fate.

Even though Clark knows the biggest stars have the shorter lifetimes, he pretends they are all equal in life and death.

Clark holds Bruce in his arms and sings him a long-forgotten song: "When you wish upon a star  
Makes no difference who you are  
Anything your heart desires  
Will come to you."

A long time after he finishes singing all the verses, Clark lays Bruce back on the bed. With infinite care, he tucks his husband in for a lasting sleep.

As tears thunder from his eyes, Clark believes that Bruce deserves every one of his wishes to come true. He deserves to be happy.

_'And they lived happily ever after,' Pa had ended his tale._

_Child Clark tilted his head. 'What happens after?'_

_'What do you mean?'_

_Young adult Clark gestured. 'What happens when the love of your life dies?'_

_'Part of you dies.' Ma's sad eyes watched him after his Pa had passed away. 'The rest of you must live on, no matter how it hurts.'_

_'But how?' adult Clark insists._

_'Part of me lives in you like part of you dies with me,' Bruce remarked, cigarette stuck in his mouth, eyes glinting, young and roguish. He motioned him away, as insolently as his playboy personality had done countless times._

_Be it as it may, Clark didn't regret his choice._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The drawing above is made by inihiu. The fic is based on that work. It's gorgeous, isn't it? 
> 
> You can see it on inihiu's tumblr account at the following link:  
> https://inihiu.tumblr.com/post/620603534610661376/drawn-for-the-2020-superbat-reverse-bang-you-can
> 
> You can also use the link at the beginning of the fic to see their art!


	4. You shall be one

_Love, let me fasten upon thine departing soul, floating with your truly bright spirit 'til the end of time. Leave me not behind; I beseech thou. For what am I without you?_

"Your life is mine, now," Clark had said as he touched Bruce's face with a tender hand. His lover's eyes found him with vast intelligence, lips bloodied by the unceasing war he waged, nose slightly crooked on an imperceivable scale to anyone but a Kryptonian, ribs bruised and ill-healed, shoulder caved by his burden.

"Your life, your soul, is mine," Clark had repeated, finally uttering the words he had searched for years- words he hoped wouldn't degenerate this moment into another endless fight. "I entrust you to keep it safe as you can, for it is my most precious possession."

Eyes glistened in the dark, bloodied hands laid on the operating table: his lover smiled in his soulful way.

"I will keep it safe for as long as I can," Bruce swore. Clark hugged him against his chest, careful not to crush his injured frame, not believing his lover would concede Clark's point, after all those fights about autonomy and self-determination.

But, back then, he hadn't understood why Bruce had folded on that point of contention this quickly. Until Bruce gently pushed him back and said, "Your life is mine."

Shivers had travelled Clark's spine, some because he liked hearing those words from Bruce's mouth, some because he could discern where Bruce was heading.

"Your life, your soul, is mine," Bruce repeated with some cocky, yet earnest, smile. He had caressed Clark's cheek and kissed his nose, laying his bloodied palm on Clark's chest, right over his heart. "I entrust you to keep it safe as you can, for it is my most precious possession."

Tears fell from Clark's cheeks- Bruce couldn't ask that of him- it was unfair, unjust, unequal. Yet, Bruce didn't back down from Clark's distress; he leaned into it and let him cry his fill. At one point, Bruce was sobbing too, not for himself- of that Clark was sure- but for Clark.

Clark would live- according to the Fortress of Solitude's calculations and if not fallen in battle- for centuries or millennials more than Bruce. Yet, despite that knowledge, Bruce made him swear to guard his life with the same vigour as Bruce guarded his.

At his kindest, Bruce was a cruel man.

Clark had fallen in love with the man singing futile promises to a dying child, nonetheless, Clark had never regretted getting his happy ending even if it didn't last forever.

_'"I love you" doesn't truly have any future nor past; it's all we ever have,' Bruce had once said._

Clark knew it wasn't so.

"I love you" was always past, present and future.


End file.
